HEAR EVERYTHING MURMER, SEE EVERYTIME GLISTEN

James Russell Lowell, in his poetic imagery, says that heaven has chosen one month in the year to see if the earth is in tune. That month is June.

Not by plucking an A string or striking Middle C, does heaven test earth, but, as Lowell suggests, by laying "softly her warm ear over it."

I go around like some maestro with a tuning fork to see if my patch of the earth is in tune, if life is murmuring and everything is glistening as Lowell further states.

At a pinky dawn hour I stopped at the rose garden and walked the paths among the lovelies. As the little daisies in the play "Green Pastures" said to the Lord as he passed by, "We's all right," I have the roses, in my mind, saying, "We's glist'nen.'"~~~~~ I nod to orange Dynasty, gold and pink Perfect Moment, rosy pink Camelot and all the others, and whisper, "Indeed you are, with those leaf-end dewdrops catching the sunlight, making little blue, red and yellow diamonds."

I walked the lanes between the apple orchard trees and saw the little round green apples-to-be swelling infinitesimally in the sun. "We's doin' our best," they say. "We's June-time size." A swishy little breeze lifted the leaves here and there as if to make it easier for heaven to see and listen.

The hedgerow throbs with new life. At proper intervals, as if entering the symphony of life at the proper time, young rabbits appear as I pass by, testing. They run through the nearby clover and then back to their shady home, their notes properly struck. Their clover forays make the crickets hush for an interval to let heaven more clearly hear the big oak leaves talking to each other in voices sweet and low.

Doves, wrens, brown thrashers, cardinals and mockingbirds flit amongst the myriad of green hedgerow leaves as if they are weaving a new strip of tapestry, stopping at the grapevine and honeysuckle to show off embroidery in the making. Some return to their nests to point out the clever little pockets the hedgerow tapestry sports.

The hedgerow has so many voices, so much to listen to, so many things that glisten. It is a composit~e of all things, co-existing. No doubt it sounds a one tremolo which heaven hears as she lays, softly, her ear over it.

Down where the creek waters run over the small rock shelf I hear the water saying, "I's murmurin.' You hear?" And I whisper, "Yes, I hear. You change your tune often but

~ ~you're~ ~~~always in harmony."

I visited the farm fields to the west, ticking off the June-time checklist. There are the cows in the pastures, A rooster crows, running off five notes in the e-d-g-b-f group. Green spears of corn, well on their way, ~say "We's here. We made it!" White daisies and yarrow grace the fence rows and, oh, sweet, sweet notes the quails calling to each other and the field sparrows dizzy with song.

Over the back yard fence and in the park, the happy squeals of children tell that they're wearing themselves out with fun. ~Good list'n~en' now.

Oh, ~heaven, could it be that you're laying, softly, your testing ear, half a world away and there is gunfire, explosions, cries of pain and agony. What then?

Then, let poet Riley speak for me: "Bring unto the sorrowing all release from pain/ Let the lips of laughter overflow again/ And with all the needy, O, divide, I pray/ This vast treasure of content that is mine today!"

REJOICE!